


I Steal A Few Breaths From The World For A Minute (And Then I’ll Be Nothing Forever)

by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Canon LGBTQ Character, Coming Out, Depression, Family Secrets, Gay, Gay Panic, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Modern Royalty, News Media, Newspapers, Outing, Panic Attacks, Princes & Princesses, Royalty, Secret Crush, Secret Relationship, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays/pseuds/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays
Summary: Notifications clouded his screen: a text from Pez, a call from Philip, a panicked voicemail from some publisher or another. Henry could hardly read them.He had spent twenty-three years cultivating this perfect image of a smart, sharp, perfect prince, and in seconds it would all be shattered. Those emails weren’t just damning evidence of his sexuality, they were his heart and soul, his hopes, his fears. Dimly, he recalled all the secrets he spilled, his father’s death and his sister’s addiction and his stupid fucking pipe dream of being a writer. Now it was all bared, all in the open for the public to see. His sorted little boxes were destroyed, spilling out their contents all at once over Henry’s mind.Shaan was speaking, something about staying calm and was Bea nearby and your inhaler, remember your inhaler, but it was all far away, distant, gone. He wanted to shut off Shaan’s voice, maybe to call Alex, maybe just for some kind of silence, but his shaking hands couldn’t find the button to hang up. He kept scrolling through headlines, images, articles, reading excerpts of his words, his love, his own fucking heart.——Or, what happens to Henry when the emails get leaked.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Beatrice Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Percy "Pez" Okonjo, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Shaan Srivastava
Comments: 20
Kudos: 170





	I Steal A Few Breaths From The World For A Minute (And Then I’ll Be Nothing Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> Why are there only 700 rwarb fics what the fuck

Henry had good days, and he had bad days.

Sure, his gran’s fancy neurologists would describe them as days of “low serotonin levels” and days of “average serotonin levels,” but that was a bit much for Henry. His therapist agreed; it was best to categorize his life into simple boxes when it all seemed too complex. The good days and the bad days.

Today was, by all accounts, a good day. He’d already been awake for two hours (well, no, he had been awake since four a.m., but his alarm went off two hours ago, so close enough), he didn’t have to eat black pudding for breakfast, and the crowds around the palace were so low that he was allowed to run without any supervision.

His feet pounded the concrete, his lungs drew in the hot air. Christ almighty, it was _humid_.

This was what he enjoyed, right in front of him: moving too fast to think, hidden from the public eye, just him, the concrete, and the gray sun creeping up the Wales sky. Unseen, unreachable, unknown.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he ended up back at his bedroom door. With a sigh, he sat down on the bed and started untying his tennis shoes, the cheap kind from the mass-product shops.

  
His phone buzzed where he had left it on the nightstand. He rolled his eyes. If no one was running into his room on fire, it could wait.

He stripped off his socks and started rubbing his sore calves. Tomorrow’s polo game would be painful, and not just painfully _boring_. He let out a quiet laugh at his own joke.

His phone buzzed again. Then again. And again and again and again.

Henry sighed again. His twenty minute reprieve from communication and royal demands was over, he supposed.   
  
  


He stood and walked to the nightstand, where his screen was filled with a pending call from Shaan. Henry huffed and answered, putting the phone on speaker so he could keep up his post-run routine.

”Who’s trying to kill gran this time?” He asked.

“Henry, we’ve got a _big fucking problem,_ and you’re the center!” Through the phone Henry heard pounding footsteps and the rapid rustle of clothes, shuffling papers. Shaan was running somewhere. Shaan _hated_ running.

”Wait, wait, _what_? What happened?”

”Check the BBC, you royal idiot! Goddamnit, how did you not notice the _camera_? Why would you use a fucking _email server_?”

Henry’s heart dropped to his feet. With shaking hands, he typed a name into the Google search bar, but not his own name. He typed Alex’s.

The first thing that popped up: a massive photo of him kissing Alex in the car, pixelated but clear. The headline: _Prince Henry and FSOTUS in Secret Love Affair, Evidenced by Leaked Emails And Photos_

”How did they...how did someone—“

”I don’t bloody know, but I’m coming up to the palace grounds, I’ll be at your room in about three minutes. Half the royal staff is waiting for us in the main office, so get your ass dressed and ready. And Henry—don’t freak out.”

”Too late,” Henry squeaked. His breaths came in short bursts, ice spreading through his veins and crawling down his spine. His ears started to ring, and he felt his stomach twist as he scrolled through headline after headline, pages of his heart exposed.

  
Notifications clouded his screen: a text from Pez, a call from Philip, a panicked voicemail from some publisher or another. Henry could hardly read them.

He had spent twenty-three years cultivating this perfect image of a smart, sharp, perfect prince, and in seconds it would all be shattered. Those emails weren’t just damning evidence of his sexuality, they were his heart and soul, his hopes, his fears. Dimly, he recalled all the secrets he spilled, his father’s death and his sister’s addiction and his stupid fucking pipe dream of being a writer. Now it was all bared, all in the open for the public to see. His sorted little boxes were destroyed, spilling out their contents all at once over Henry’s mind.

Shaan was speaking, something about staying calm and was Bea nearby and your inhaler, remember your inhaler, but it was all far away, distant, gone. He wanted to shut off Shaan’s voice, maybe to call Alex, maybe just for some kind of silence, but his shaking hands couldn’t find the button to hang up. He kept scrolling through headlines, images, articles, reading excerpts of his words, his love, his own fucking heart.

His eyes crossed one particular line, the line, _his line_ , and his heart stopped.

_but i’ve_ _kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i’ve memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i’m still charting._

And that crossed a fucking boundary.

Henry dropped his phone, and distantly, as if through a thousand layers of cotton, he heard the screen shatter and Shaan’s voice cut off. The silence wasn’t relieving, it was filled with the ringing in his ears and the sound of his harsh gasps.   
  


Henry felt his stomach twist again, too far, and he lunged across the room and vomited in his royal fucking toilet like the wretched prince he was.   
  


Henry came up shuddering, crumpled in a heap on the floor, trying to catch his breath. In a terrified, deranged moment, he giggled: good thing he’d eaten no black pudding before this.  
  


Someone threw open his door and kneeled next to him, placed their hands on his cheeks and made him face them. It was Bea, her dark hair still a mess and her clothes rumpled like she’d just woken up. Her face was blurry, when had Henry gone cross eyed? Or did he need glasses like Alex and he just never knew? In any case, Bea’s concerned features were distorted, her voice reaching his ears from far away.

”Henry,” she said, “we need to go. We’ve got to take care of this, _now_.”

Henry shook his head. “I c-can’t, I—I can’t—“

“I know, but you have to.”

  
His voice was thick with tears, and he realized he was crying, hot tears streaming down his face. “Bea, that's—that’s me, that’s him, that’s _everything_.”

”I know,” she said, and she sounded choked. “God Almighty, I know. And I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry this happened.”

”I can’t _do this_ , not all at once, this wasn’t—I’m not strong enough, I can’t—“

  
”Look at me,” she said, her voice so royally commanding that he did.

Bea held his gaze fiercely, and her eyes were hard and focused. A rock. There were Dad’s eyes.

“You are Prince Henry of Wales. You have spent your entire life holding the weight of the crown. You survived what happened with Dad, you survived my fucking coke addiction, you’ve survived every bullshit day we’ve had to deal with Philip and Gran. You have handled the worst things on this terrible planet, and this is no different. Put this on your pile of ‘worst things,’ and deal with the fallout.”

And somehow, against everything, he nodded. His walls were down. His boxes were destroyed. But in the middle of the spinning wreck of his brain, his tower of worst things stood still. He took this moment, his shame and fear and rage, and put it right on top of his father’s casket and his sister’s rehab papers and his mother’s suicide attempt discharge report. He had to deal with this now. He had to. He had to. He had to.

Bea’s lips tightened in determination. She grabbed his shoulder and started lifting him to his feet. He stumbled and tipped them both towards the gilded sinks. Bea cursed, and Henry just tried to feel his feet again.

Then someone else was there, Shaan, his strong hands looping around Henry’s waist and helping Bea haul him to standing. Henry swayed but took a step forwards, then another. Slowly, he started to come back into his body.

”Come on, mate, let’s sort this shit out,” Shaan said next to him. Henry could hardly see, hardly lift his head, but he nodded.

His little compartments, his neat rows of emotions and logic, were toppled down. His walls were crushed in just a few minutes, and he didn’t know who he was supposed to be now. He didn’t know anything.   
  


Somehow, against everything in him telling him to lay down and die, give up on life, and let chaos overwhelm him, held on his feet by Bea and Shaan, Henry opened the bedroom door and looked to the still halls before him.

He took a step towards whatever was about to happen, and he knew one thing, clear and true.

Today was a bad day.

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all hoes better comment 🔪  
> Pls  
> I love validation


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